Sub-par
by Pariaritzia
Summary: Victor asks Victoria to rate his kissing. The answer is not quite what he was hoping for.


**This oneshot is probably really pointless and might not even be in character (I haven't seen the movie in about six years), but it came to me and wouldn't leave. Corpse Bride belongs to Tim Burton; I own only this computer and the crêpes I had for breakfast.**

**Bonne lecture.**

Victor van Dort was a lot of things.

He was a maladroit fool, an invariable stammerer, and a rather unsatisfactory son.

On the other hand, he was also an excellent artist, an impeccable pianist, and—if he did say so himself—a rather good husband, particularly when he was _not_ paying compliments to Victoria's fingers (but she had such pretty fingers!).

Of course, Victoria did not seem to mind that he paid compliments to her fingers (in fact, she had smiled very sweetly when he had voiced his admiration) and since Victor knew she did not mind his other deficiencies either, he did not fret over them too much. He knew his shortcomings, he knew his abilities, and he would do his best to avoid the former and augment the latter.

There was still one skill, however, on which Victoria's opinion remained unknown, and the idea that she may count it among his inabilities worried him more than all his faults put together did.

It was a rainy Wednesday evening. After an early supper they had retired to the drawing room. Victoria had settled in an armchair with a dusty tome and promptly buried herself in it; Victor, wondering what on earth could be so dusty and at once so intriguing, had gone to his desk to draw. Some minutes passed, occupied chiefly with doodling butterflies and birds; when he had wasted nearly an entire page on that, however, he hurriedly took out a fresh sheet and looked round for something to draw.

For Victor, determining the object of a drawing, whether from fact or fancy, was an art in itself. The way a reader craves a certain book or a gastronome a particular cuisine, his hands craved a specific subject. If his hands wanted to draw the serene skies and pastoral pleasance of the countryside, he could not possibly be satisfied with a silly sketch of the sitting room.

The sitting room…

He turned in his chair and regarded Victoria for a long minute. She had removed her shoes and sat curled in her chair; her usually pin-neat hair had loosened a little over the course of the day, and he was almost shy to see a curl trail along her neck; and her lips were pouted a bit in concentration as she read.

Yes, he thought, beaming. Victoria would make an excellent subject.

He turned back to his page and began, but he had not yet finished his first line when it occurred to him that he ought to ask her permission.

Oh, but…wouldn't it be lovely to surprise her? She liked his drawings immensely, but in the four months they had been married he had never drawn her. Wouldn't she be pleased? _Shouldn't_ he surprise her?

He went back to work.

Very soon he lost track of time. Seconds consisted of Victoria's eyelashes; minutes were made of the sweet curl grazing her cheek. It astonished him how, in a mere four months, they could go from being complete strangers to knowing each other so well he could draw her without taking a second glance.

Rain danced against the windowpanes, the pages of Victoria's book shushed one another as she turned them, and Victor was nearly finished. He had saved her face for last, and all he had left was her mouth.

Her mouth, which was being unreasonable stubborn. The rest of her had amiably conformed to his pen, but her mouth was obstinately refusing to comply.

Victor sighed and pushed his hair off his forehead in exasperation. For heaven's sake, shouldn't her mouth be simple? After all, he knew it awfully well. Perhaps better than any other part of her.

Suddenly he felt himself colour.

How utterly brazen of him.

Victoria would be outraged!

Or actually…perhaps not. One of the many wonderful aspects of the new Mrs. van Dort was that she never was offended by Victor's ill-worded thoughts. If, whilst blushing furiously, he came out with, "That dress—your, um, collarbone—remarkably p-pretty, you know—and, ah, it—it suits you," she always understood that he meant to compliment her in the purest sense, even if he was ogling her collarbone like some sort of wicked rake.

Still…it was only six in the evening. _Surely_ it was evil of him to think of kissing his wife in the drawing room at this hour.

Oh, for heaven's sake. Now he was thinking of it even more. In an effort to distract himself he looked down at his drawing; but that was no help, because she was missing a mouth and if he tried to draw it, he would again start thinking about kissing her.

Or perhaps…perhaps he should not chide himself so much. He had never even talked to a girl before meeting Victoria. Only five months ago, kissing was unimaginable to him.

Well, not quite _unimaginable_…but of course, Victor van Dort, son of a respectable and wealthy sardine merchant, would _never_ have snuck down the street last year to the sordid bookshop which his mother had forbidden him to visit, and he most certainly had not read as many penny dreadfuls as he could in two hours.

No, not at all. How could anyone suggest such a terrible thing?

Granted, the girls in the penny dreadfuls were not one-tenth as sensible—or as pretty, he thought, reddening again—as Victoria; nor, for that matter, were the men as clumsy or ineloquent as Victor, but despite the sense of guilt and giddiness over his secret expedition, he was glad he had read them. At least he had had some—albeit minimal—instruction. And the penny dreadfuls, as much as they exaggerated fiendish plots and flighty princesses, had gotten one part right: the kissing.

Butterflies. Tingles. Soft lips and murmurs. Dreamy expressions (though he supposed he tended to look more dazed than anything else). Sweet smiles.

Of course, Victor knew how lucky he was. The penny dreadfuls' version of kissing did not hold true for everyone. The Everglots, for example. Or even Victor's own parents. The notion of his father feeling tingles upon kissing the elder Mrs. van Dort was absurd enough to make Victor chuckle.

The moment the sound escaped him, he was horrified. What sort of son was he, to poke fun at his own parents? Furthermore, he was sitting in the drawing room, at his desk, at _six in the evening_, which was _certainly_ not a time for kissing one's wife, yet here he was, dreaming about it like a base villain out of one of those dratted penny dreadfuls—

"Something amuses you?"

At the sound of Victoria's voice Victor whirled around in his seat, blushing brightly.

"I—I—well, nothing, really, just a—a passing thought." He hesitated. Another passing thought had occurred to him. Not everybody felt the same way about kissing. Just because _he_ felt pleasantly dizzy and positively marvelous when he kissed Victoria did not necessarily mean she felt the same. For heaven's sake, he had never even asked if she wished to be kissed! He had always just done it! Like a common rogue!

And he had the temerity to call himself a good husband.

Perhaps he ought to ask whether or not she minded not being asked.

(…it struck Victor just how convoluted his sentence was, even for him.)

She had not looked up from her book. He hoped she would not. If he saw her face he would never manage the words.

"V-Victoria?"

To his relief, she kept reading. "Yes?"

"Um—I have—I have a question."  
Oh, heavens. She looked at him expectantly.

He swallowed. "Ah—" All at once his courage failed him, and he snatched up his still-incomplete drawing. "Do you think this is a good likeness?"

Victoria blinked, rose, and went for a closer look.

"Oh!" she said, smiling. "Why, yes, Victor, only you might have made me prettier than I really am."

"Oh no, never!" he blurted. "I'm afraid it does not at all do you justice in that department!"

Victoria's smile sweetened and he felt his ears warm.

"Also—" Victoria blinked once more. "Victor, you seem to have neglected to give me a mouth."  
"I have?" His initial problem returned to him. "Oh, yes, I—I had some trouble with it. You sort of—pout—when you read, especially when you concentrate, and then I—I suppose I was daydreaming a bit and forgot about it." He steeled himself. "In fact, I was thinking—well, perhaps I should not ask."  
"Ask what?"

If she knew what his question was, she might not have been so calm. Goodness knew that Victor was nervous.

"Well, I was thinking about us," he said, speaking too quickly and surreptitiously wiping his palms on his trousers, "and I was wondering if…if you…that is, when we are…oh, never mind! I shall likely offend you…"

"No, no, Victor, do ask! What could you possibly say to offend me?"

Plenty. "You do…_like_…kissing me, don't you, Victoria?"

Then it was her turn to blush. She clasped her hands before her, as if to hold in her shyness. "Oh! Why—yes, very much so. Why do you ask?"

"I was thinking about penny dreadfuls," he admitted, with the air of a small child who has caught stealing sweets. "I read a few of them last year, I'm afraid. Much of it was nonsense, but when the characters kiss it was always described as something warm and lovely, and that's how I feel about you." He looked down at his feet. "I just wanted to know if you felt the same."

"Oh, certainly! And don't feel so awful about the penny dreadfuls, Victor. I happen to have read a few of those myself."  
Victor looked up, eyes wide. "You have?"

"Yes, thought Mother has no idea. A girl in our neighborhood had some and she lent me two of them about half a year ago." She suppressed a laugh. "You are right in deeming most of it nonsense, and in—well, in what is correct."  
"Butterflies," Victor added knowledgeably. "Butterflies and tingles."  
Victor shook a little with silent laughter. "Dark and dashing heroes, with"—she reached out and fingered a strand over his forehead—"floppy hair."

For a moment they were silent.

"Have you ever read _Her Ladyship's Knight_?"  
"Yes, I remember that one," said Victor, grinning, then said in a pompous tone, "Sir Gavin Sterling must rescue the fair princess Adelaide from the clutches of the notorious Count of Blackthorn."  
Victoria muffled another laugh. "Do you recall the ending, when Sir Sterling kisses Adelaide, and asks how his kisses compare to those of the count? Goodness, but I have never read such mawkishness in my life!"

"Yes…" Victor agreed distractedly. His brow furrowed. "Do you think my kisses are better than a count's?"

Even taking into account the inquirer, the question was a peculiar one, and Victoria seemed taken aback.

"Well—I suppose so."  
"You _suppose_ so?" Victor repeated, flushing. "What do you mean, you _suppose_ so? Have you ever even kissed a count? Or—wait, is—or was, rather—was Lord Barkis a count? Did he kiss you?"

So _this_ was what jealousy felt like.

"No, no, dear, never!" said Victoria hastily, eager to soothe his hurt feelings. She took his hands. "But Victor dear, since I have never kissed anyone else, much less a count, I cannot make an entirely fair judgement."  
"Hmph." He still seemed displeased. "All right, then. If you cannot _compare_ it, then will you rate it?"  
"_Rate_ it?" she echoed, appalled.

"Yes!" cried Victor, warming to the idea. He twisted their hands so he held hers. "On a scale of one to ten. One is worst, ten is best."  
"Oh, Victor, really…this is silly…"

"Rate it! Please!"

He looked so terribly desperate that she sighed and said the first number that came to mind. "All right, then. Six."  
His face fell. "Six?"  
"Or seven!" she said quickly. "Yes, I think seven."

"Seven," he repeated dejectedly. "Oh."

His kissing, evidently, was sub-par (for surely a husband of four months ought to kiss worthy of an eight, at the very least!). One more point, he thought gloomily, that he could add to his list of inabilities.

Victoria bit her lip and said hurriedly, "However, I am sure I could be persuaded to increase your rating!"

The rapidity with which his expression went from misery to hope was astonishing. "You could? How?"  
She pressed her lips together to hide her smile. "Perhaps a demonstration?"

He stopped breathing.

"After all, it has been rather a while since we have kissed," she pointed out shyly. "Ten whole hours, you know. That's a horribly long time. I think I may have simply forgotten—oh!"

In Victoria's opinion, only one thing outdid kissing Victor, and that was kissing Victor while in his lap. There was something gloriously scandalous about it (and Victoria had had very little opportunity for scandal in her eighteen years), about her skirts crushed between him and the desk and his arms tight around her. Her fingers curled into the front of his waistcoat and his own hands tightened at her waist as he angled his head. He murmured something into her mouth and she shivered with delight, her stomach fluttering pleasantly.

When he pulled away a protest rose to hr lips; she stifled it, blushing at the impropriety of her thoughts, and took a moment to recover from the delicious fog clouding her thinking.

"Well?" he asked expectantly. "Now what am I? An eight?"

What was he talking—oh, yes, the rating.

"No," said Victoria a little breathlessly, leaning her forehead against his. "Not at all an eight."

"Then what?"

"Eleven," she said firmly, kissing the tip of his nose. "Definitely eleven."  
Victor beamed.

Perhaps he could count kissing among his abilities after all.


End file.
